


Breathe with Confidence

by withthekeyisking



Series: Sladick Fics [26]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Dick Grayson, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Force Visions, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jedi, Jedi Dick Grayson, M/M, Mind Manipulation, Sith, Sith Slade Wilson, The Force, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:01:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23977888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthekeyisking/pseuds/withthekeyisking
Summary: Dick Grayson is a Jedi, and he doesn't need anyone's validation to make that true.But it would be a lot easier if there wasn't a Sith trying his hardest to make Dick slip up.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson
Series: Sladick Fics [26]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1307747
Comments: 61
Kudos: 366





	Breathe with Confidence

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Want and the Shadows](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5881399) by [victoriousscarf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/victoriousscarf/pseuds/victoriousscarf). 



> For May the 4th (be with you), here is my first attempt at writing in this universe!
> 
> Also I preface this by saying I haven't actually watched Star Wars in a very long time lol, but I saw that Star Wars Day was approaching and couldn't get it out of my head that I wanted to write this. So if any of you big Star Wars fans notice any glaring issues, oops! Enjoy it anyway 😁
> 
> Also, this is my 100th fic, so that's pretty neat :)

Dick feels him before he sees him.

He doesn't turn around, though. Doesn't tense or reach for his lightsabers. He continues the pleasant conversation he's having with the stall worker, the woman excitedly showing him her various trinkets.

He's looking for something for Damian, which is always tricky; with every mission he brings the others small gifts, and while Tim and Jason are relatively easy to buy things for, Damian never fails to be a challenge. It's not that the boy wouldn't appreciate whatever Dick brought him, even if he pretends to be above it all, but Dick knows Damian hasn't had many people truly put effort into his happiness while growing up, so Dick's made it his mission to do so. Each little gift he brings back is something he's sure Damian will truly love.

He feels Slade step up beside him, and the seller's eyes briefly flick away from Dick to acknowledge the new potential customer. Dick can see the moment she takes Slade in, her shoulders tensing slightly with anxiety, and Dick can't blame her; Slade's an imposing figure, well over six feet and not exactly lacking in muscles. He also never makes any attempts to hide his weapons, so there's sure to be a sword or gun in clear view.

Maybe even his lightsaber, since Slade's never really cared about subtly, even if he never wears the robes of the Sith.

"How much for this one?" Dick asks the seller with a kind smile, drawing her attention back to him and the object in his hand. She glances at Slade once more, offering the other man what is probably supposed to be a polite smile but comes off more like a grimace, and then fully engages with Dick again.

Still, Dick does not look at Slade. He purchases the item and then continues on, walking from stall to stall, pulling people into conversation, buying things here and there. And through it all is Slade, a silent shadow right behind him, his presence something Dick is unable to ignore completely.

He shouldn't, anyway. He shouldn't be so casually showing a Sith his back. In fact he should be drawing his lightsabers from where they're hidden and turning for a fight, as is his duty as a Jedi. Slade is a Sith, and should be taken down.

But Dick's fought Slade enough times to know how this would go; he'd draw his sabers, and by the time he turned around Slade would've drawn his own. The fight would be between lightsabers but also good old-fashioned hand-to-hand, because Slade always gets them there somehow, and using their abilities to throw each other around. Slade would surely use some innocent person as a distraction or hostage, and something important would absolutely end up getting destroyed in the process of it all.

But this is a nice market, on a nice day, on a peaceful planet. Dick has no interest in making trouble here, especially with no guarantee that he would win the battle. So this will have to be okay; as long as Slade doesn't pick a fight or hurt someone, Dick can live with being stalked for a little while.

It's not like this is the first time, after all. More than likely won't be the last.

After maybe ten minutes, Slade starts probing at his mental shields. Not an attempt to actually enter his mind, but just enough to irritate and give Dick a mild headache.

After fifteen minutes, Slade starts using little bursts of the Force to try to trip Dick up. That's more frustrating, because now Dick has to keep some of his concentration on walking evenly, keeping Slade's attempts at influence from actually having any effect over his feet or the ground in front of him.

He can feel Slade's amusement with it all, and grits his teeth against the urge to snap at him. It would just be giving the man what he wants, after all, and Dick makes an effort to not do what Sith want him to do.

Slade often forces himself into being an exception to that, much to Dick's chagrin. Much to the chagrin of Bruce, as well, though Dick's kept a majority of this from him and the rest of the Order.

Dick has _nothing_ to be ashamed of, he's reminded himself countless times. He's done nothing wrong. He is a Jedi, and a Jedi he will always be. Just because a Sith has some sort of fascination with him and pops up once in a while doesn't make that any less true.

He doesn't tell the Order because they'd worry too much, is all. Not because of what Slade thinks, that he's hiding it on purpose like a child with a dirty secret. Like it's something Dick feels guilty over. But he _doesn't,_ because there's nothing to be guilty about. He's done nothing wrong. He is not conflicted.

Dick is a Jedi, and doesn't need anyone's validation to make that true.

He _certainly_ doesn't need the approval of Slade Wilson.

"Something on your mind, pretty bird?" Slade murmurs, far too close for comfort, but Dick doesn't flinch away or react at all.

Slade chuckles when Dick doesn't respond, and Dick can feel the other man step closer, brushing up against his back, breath hot against his neck. Dick goes rigid, frozen in place, and then gets himself to step away, hands curling into fists and jaw clenching. Slade only chuckles again.

"You never change, do you?" Slade observes. "Still so _noble,_ still so _torn..."_

 _I'm not torn,_ Dick wants to snap back. _I've never been torn!_

Instead he takes a few deep breaths and calms himself. Peace and serenity in the Force. No need for anger or resentment. He is a Jedi.

"Tell me, _Jedi,"_ Slade says, the word dripping with mockery, "since the last time we saw each other, how often have you allowed yourself to think of me?"

Dick scoffs, unable to help himself. "You think yourself more important than you are."

He can hear Slade's grin when the man replies, "I think you more vulnerable than you like to admit."

Dick finally turns to look at him, eyes narrowed. It's been just over a year since Dick last saw the Sith, and he looks much the same as he always has. His Mandalorian armor, the sign of what he was before the Sith found him, shines as clearly as ever, only the smallest of flaws acting as proof of battles long past.

Dick's always been curious about those marks despite himself, about who was skilled enough to scratch the Deathstroke's beskar armor. Once, when he was injured and loopy from blood loss in Slade's presence, he asked. He can't remember if Slade ever answered, and he would certainly never ask again, not while in his right mind.

The details of a Sith's armor do not concern him. It is not of any import.

Slade smiles at him, sharp canines peeking out. "Hello there, pretty bird."

"I am not vulnerable," Dick says tightly, and then turns away once more, forcing himself to continue walking. He's reached the edge of the market; all that's left to do is make his way back to his ship and take off. His mission here is complete, and he has bought the things he wanted to get.

Slade steps up beside him without any trouble, matching pace with him. Dick looks at him out of the corner of his eye and finds Slade watching him right back, a small smirk on his face.

"What purpose do you have for those knickknacks?" Slade asks, nodding towards Dick's satchel where he's stored his gifts for the others. "What use do the Jedi have for useless trinkets? Isn't that a bit _sentimental?"_

They've had this conversation a thousand times before, in many variations. Dick never fails in allowing himself to be pulled into it.

"There is nothing wrong with sentimentality," he says, and his hand tightens around the strap of his satchel where it rests across his chest.

"I will never understand the pointless rules you all set in place for yourself," Slade says, shaking his head, lips curled slightly in distaste. "Sentimentality is fine, but affection is dangerous, and love is forbidden."

"Love isn't forbidden," Dick replies. He breathes in and out, peaceful. "I love my master, and my friends, and they love me in turn. Our rules have nothing to do with love. As long as it does not control you or affect your actions, then it is innocent. There is nothing wrong with selfless love."

Slade rolls his eye, not the first time he's had such a reaction when Dick explains this. He doesn't know why Slade keeps starting these kinds of debates with him; he will not change Dick's mind, nor his allegiance. Dick is a Jedi, and he believes in the Order. Slade's feelings on it matter not.

"Tell me something, Richard," Slade says. "If Jedi are not supposed to form familial bonds, if marriage and children are _against the rules,_ how is it that Damian Wayne exists?"

Dick stops walking and narrows his eyes at Slade, his free hand drifting towards where one of his concealed lightsabers rests. He sees Slade's gaze flick briefly downwards, tracking the motion, and then back to Dick's face, unbothered.

"Who?" Dick asks.

Slade snorts, looking unimpressed. "I'm going to assume that's a last-ditch effort to keep the boy secret, and not an actual attempt at deception on your part, because that was _pitiful."_

"How do you know about Damian?" Dick asks tightly.

 _"Everyone_ knows about Damian, pretty bird," Slade tells him. "It's not exactly like the al Ghuls were keeping it to themselves."

Dick feels anger flare at the reminder of the Sith family. "If you heard it from _them,"_ Dick spits, "then you must know the truth of how Damian came to be."

Slade looks at him levelly. "I do."

Dick turns away with a sneer, hand falling from his saber, and picks up the pace towards his ship. They're close now, and though Dick would really rather Slade be nowhere _near_ his way out of here, he's not going to get the Sith to leave him alone any time soon, and he can't wait around until Slade gets bored to leave.

"I'm sure you approve," Dick says coldly.

Slade barks a laugh. He has no trouble matching Dick's faster pace, which is slightly irritating. "Approve of what Talia did to your master? Why would you assume that?"

Dick doesn't reply, but his mind goes back to that day when he'd been stabbed in the stomach and was close to bleeding out, and Slade was the only one there. He remembers his fingers tracing the scuffs on Slade's armor and asking about them, and he remembers Slade catching his hand between his own larger ones, and he remembers...

_"You are beautiful," Slade murmurs, his lips brushing against the skin of Dick's hand. Dick watches dumbly as the Sith presses light kisses to his knuckles, gaze dark as he watches the Jedi in turn._

_Still holding eye contact, Slade sucks one of Dick's fingers into his mouth. Dick's lips part, surprised, and he blinks sluggishly. A bandage has been secured to his stomach wound, so he's not in danger of bleeding out anymore, but he's still dizzy and light-headed from blood loss, unable to get himself to move._

_Only twenty minutes ago he was trying his best to take Slade down, and now he's..._

_Slade releases his finger and kisses his knuckles again, then his wrist, then down the length of his arm, pulling Dick closer as he does it._

_Dick shudders as he's manhandled onto the Sith's lap, one large hand in the small of his back, keeping him in place. Slade's so warm, and Dick can't remember why he shouldn't lean into that warmth, why it's bad that he's in this position. It's there at the edge of his mind, a warning to run, escape,_ fight, _but as soon as he tries to figure it out, it gets nudged out of reach, like the brush of someone's fingers against his thoughts._

 _One of Slade's hands slides through Dick's hair, tugging lightly at the black strands, and Dick leans into the touch with a soft sigh. He can't remember the last time someone held him like this, touching him for no other purpose than to touch. The Jedi are not a physically affectionate people, but the ones Dick comes from_ are, _and these years almost completely isolated from touch have been extremely challenging._

 _"Poor little bird," Slade coos. "So_ lonely, _aren't you? So starved for affection. You're wasted on the Jedi."_

 _Dick's brow furrows. There's something wrong with that statement, something he_ knows _he has to fight against, but before he can figure out it's being pushed away, just like before._

 _He knows_ that's _wrong, too, but Slade's lips are against his suddenly, and nothing else seems to matter._

_Dick is nineteen years old, and this is the first time he's ever been kissed. Slade holds him in place with a hand in the small of his back and another around the nape of his neck, fingers massaging his skin as Slade licks into his mouth, biting at his lips, stroking his smaller tongue with his own. He tilts Dick's head up, adjusting the angle, allowing him to deepen the kiss._

_It's almost hard to breathe, not helping with Dick's lightheadedness, and he can do nothing but take it pliantly, allowing Slade to do what he wants with him._

_"So much passion in that head of yours," Slade says. "So much anger and fight and_ desire... _How have you survived so long amongst those who would seek to stifle you?"_

_Dick shakes his head sluggishly. "The Jedi don't..."_

_Slade shushes him. There's that feeling again, like fingers in his mind, quietly brushing away whatever it was he was thinking about._

_Distantly, Dick knows it wouldn't normally be this easy. That his shields are some of the best out there, and no one has the ability to enter his mind without his say-so. But right now is not normal times._

_Where's Bruce, why hasn't he come yet? They're not as close as they once were, Bruce more and more distant as the years passed, and Dick hasn't seen him much since he stopped being his Padawan a year and a half ago, but he'd still come for him, wouldn't he? This mission was dangerous, the Council advising great caution. They would know something was wrong as soon as it happened._

_Why isn't...?_

_"Don't worry about your old master," Slade says, and the hand in the small of his back travels around to his front, pulling at the belt that keeps his robes closed. "You don't need any of them, pretty bird. They want to make you into something you're not. You have the potential to be so much more."_

_His hand slides down into Dick's pants, and Dick gasps. Slade takes the opportunity to kiss him again, the hand on the nape of his neck never loosening its grip. Slade strokes him expertly, making Dick's hips buck, little moans spilling out of his mouth._

_He's never felt anything like this before, like he's on fire, like he's being_ consumed _by another person. He's surrounded, Slade warm and large against him, and he melts into the hold, shivering. There's something wrong here, but it's barely a flicker at the corner of his mind, too desperate for more, to get closer, for Slade to hold him for a little while longer. He'll do anything as long as Slade doesn't let go._

_"That's right," Slade purrs against his mouth. "I've got you, little bird. I'll take care of you, as long as you're mine. Just let go."_

_There's a crash and a bang, and Slade's head jerks up, his hand stilling around Dick's member. Dick whines at the sudden loss of stimulation, and Slade quirks a brief grin down at him before looking away again, gaze intent somewhere past Dick._

_"It seems it's time for us to go, pretty bird," Slade tells him, and draws his hand out of Dick's pants, redoing the belt and fixing his robes. "We can continue this once we're out of harm's way, hm?"_

_Dick's head lolls back as Slade gets to his feet, lifting the Jedi up into a bridal carry. The movement makes his stomach wound make itself known again, and Dick cries out, spasming in Slade's arms. There's a shout somewhere nearby, a familiar voice calling out his name, and then the door is flying inward, and Dick's vision goes black._

"Well you've never much cared about the state of consent from _your_ partners, so I can't imagine you would feel any differently about Talia's actions, as long as it got her what she wanted."

Dick's impressed with himself for how calm and unbothered he sounds when he says that. He's less impressed by how unprepared he is for Slade grabbing his arm, and the surprise allows Slade to spin him around before Dick flicks out his lightsabers and thumbs them on, forcing Slade back lest he impale himself on the thrumming blades.

Slade draws his own lightsaber in response, the glowing red flaring to life with a hiss, but he only holds it out at his side, not pointed at Dick yet.

"I was just giving you what you wanted, kid," Slade says with a shrug, thankfully not playing dumb about knowing what Dick means. The events of nine years ago still fresh in both of their minds.

Dick bares his teeth, angry. "I barely knew where I _was,_ as spaced out as I felt. And you sure made sure that I couldn't remember anything important, messing with my head. I didn't _want_ anything; you took advantage."

"You needed the push," Slade disagrees, still unrepentant. "You needed to be released from your guilt about what the Order would want you to do, so you could simply respond how _you_ wanted." He smirks, a wolfish little thing. "And you know how you responded, kid? Touch-starved and desperate, soaking in everything I could give you like you were _gagging_ for it."

Dick attacks, swinging his dual sabers in a lethal arc. Slade meets him effortlessly, ready for him, and Dick only has a moment to be thankful that they're far from the market and innocent civilians before his entire focus has to go into the fight.

Back and forth they go, striking and parrying. Dick's fresh off a mission but it hasn't been a hard one, and he refuses to let any of that affect him, using his all to fight Slade. He hears a scream somewhere in the background, and that momentary distraction is all Slade needs to send him flying through the air with a burst of power, the Force bending to the Sith's will.

Dick slams against something metal and it knocks the wind from him. He wheezes, sliding to his knees. One of his lightsabers has been knocked from his grip, and it's that emptiness that has him forcing himself to his feet, a reminder that he's not safe, that there's still a very dangerous man coming after him.

Slade is already there though as he stands, red lightsaber swinging towards his neck, and Dick throws up his own to block it, the two sabers crackling as they're forced together. Dick can feel the heat emanating off of them, and wishes they weren't so close to his face, Slade's strength pressing the weapons closer.

"Do you ever get asked about the oddness of your sabers?" Slade asks, sounding irritatingly in control considering they're in the midst of a fight. Given, _he's_ not the one with his back pinned to a wall and a lightsaber an inch from his neck, so Dick supposes he has far less to sound winded over.

"My lightsabers are fine," Dick grits out. He made them himself, and he's proud of them; sleek and perfectly balanced, matched down to the last detail and an effortless extension of his own being.

"Of course they are," Slade agrees, smirking. "I absolutely agree. I'm rather referring to the _color,_ however. Can't say I've seen a Jedi with an orange blade before. Is this your way of showing them who you really are?"

Dick narrows his eyes. The strain of keeping Slade at bay is starting to get to him, his arms shaking just a little. Because Slade's pushing not just with his strength now, but with the Force as well, surrounding Dick with the particular _sharpness_ that always sings in Dick's brain when a Sith uses the Force in such close proximity. This isn't looking good.

"I am a Jedi," Dick says firmly. _"That_ is who I really am."

He pushes with all his strength, drawing the Force to him, and is gratified when Slade is forced to stumble back a few steps, enough to allow Dick to duck to the side so he isn't backed against the wall anymore.

He throws out his hand and calls his other lightsaber to him, igniting it as soon as it once again rests in his palm. It makes him feel more confident, having them both in his grasp, but he feels himself breathing heavily even as he works to regulate it, his limbs heavier as his strength begins to wane.

"You live in denial," Slade sneers at him, disappointed. "You cling to an ideal you believe you have to live up to, and ignore the parts of yourself that long for so much more. There is too much fire in you to be a Jedi, Richard. To deny is to invite madness."

Dick laughs. "You talk to me about _madness?_ You, the Sith who slaughters for fun and kills innocents for money? _I_ am not the mad one here, Slade."

"I know what I am," Slade replies, unbothered. "I relish in it, even. But you are split down the middle, and it's pitiful to watch. I know you long for things the Jedi won't allow you to have. Touch, connection, partnership—"

"I have no need for any of those things," Dick says, voice trembling ever so slightly. "I am a Jedi."

"You're an emotional time bomb!" Slade laughs. "What do you think they will do to you when you finally snap? When you don't reign in that anger soon enough, or you go a step too far to protect someone you love, or you finally indulge in that deep longing to have someone just _hold_ you; what then, _Jedi?_ What would your precious Order think of you _then,_ when you break free of their ridiculous rules?"

"There is no emotion," Dick murmurs, "there is peace."

Slade thrusts out a hand, and Dick can feel his presence _slam_ into the shields of Dick's mind. Dick yells, shocked, and then grits his teeth against the pain, standing strong.

Well he _does,_ until a brick comes out of nowhere, hurtling into his head.

Dick's vision whites out, and when he comes to he's lying on his side on the ground. His head is screaming at him, his thoughts slow and sluggish. Everything is blurry; he blinks heavily, trying to make things come back into focus, and sees a shape approaching him.

"Let me show you what you're missing, Grayson," a voice says, thick like it's coming from underwater. A foot nudges his shoulder, rolling him onto his back, and Dick sprawls limply against the rough ground.

A stab of pain in Dick's head has him groaning, and he weakly tries to raise his shields again, but he can barely get his _fingers_ to move let alone manage to keep a powerful Sith like Slade out of his head.

Dick blinks, and when he opens his eyes again, he's no longer lying on the ground with a dangerous enemy standing above him, but sitting on a couch in a nice apartment, the sun just beginning to rise outside the large wall of windows.

He sits there for a few moments, confused. He was just somewhere else, wasn't he? There was...something he was supposed to be doing, some sort of danger he had to take care of. He...there was _something—_

"Dick."

Dick blinks and turns towards the familiar voice that called, and smiles when he sees Jason. It's rare that he sees the younger boy, considering his status as fallen; despite Dick's best efforts, Jason has no interest in returning to the Order, which means the times Dick truly gets to spend any time with him are few and far in between.

And even during those times, there's always something so _guarded_ about him, like he's just waiting for Dick to betray him, to drag him back to the Order kicking and screaming. Now, though—the Jason standing a few feet away is relaxed in a way Dick hasn't seen since the boy was a Padawan and first learning how amazing being able to use the Force is. He's still his new grown self, but he's looking at Dick like they're _family,_ not the whatever-they-are that they've become.

"Jay," Dick returns, still smiling a little. "What are you...what are you doing here?" Dick looks around, confused. What is _he_ doing here? What is this place? Everything is so...fuzzy.

Jason cocks his head, brow furrowing a little in confusion. He walks further into the room, throwing himself down onto the couch, lying back with a contented sigh. His legs swing up so he can lie down properly, and Dick freezes as his feet settle casually in Dick's lap like it's no big deal.

"What do you mean?" Jason asks. "This is my home, isn't it, Dickhead?"

Dick opens his mouth to say _something_ to that—though he's not sure what—but he's stopped by another person padding into the room. The small figure glares at both Dick and Jason, eyes squinted with the remnants of sleep, and then climbs over Jason's legs on the couch, wiggling himself into place so his head is against Dick's shoulder, easily resting his weight against the elder.

Dick can barely breathe, not daring to move at all. What is this? Why are they...They're so _close._ They're—they're touching him, cuddling with him on the couch like it's nothing.

"You two are going to wake the entire household with your jabbering," Damian snipes, but it lacks heat, clearly tired.

Jason smirks, nudging him with his foot and earning a glare in return. "We barely said ten words to each other, you're just a ridiculously light sleeper, kid."

Damian grumbles something unintelligible in reply and closes his eyes once more, falling silent.

Slowly, not allowing himself to hope in case this all goes up in a puff of smoke, Dick leans against Damian in turn, his head tilting down to rest against the boy's. He lifts a hesitant hand and, after a moment of debate, settles it on Jason's ankle, light and ready to rip away if the other boy glares at him.

But Jason just quirks an amused eyebrow and doesn't look bothered, shifting into a slightly more comfortable position and then closing his eyes, too.

Dick lets out a shuddering breath, swallowing against a lump in his throat. They're warm and they're _there,_ not tolerating a brief touch but actually taking the first step and _staying._ Dick didn't think this was possible, that anyone would ever—

"Morning, Dick."

Dick looks over at the quiet whisper, and sees a man approaching. He's familiar, Dick _knows_ that he knows him, can feel in his bones that this is someone he loves, and who loves him in turn. But the face is out of focus, all of the man's features obscured.

That doesn't stop the man from pressing a soft kiss to Dick's temple, doesn't stop him from smiling fondly down at Dick and the other two boys. It certainly doesn't stop the gentle brush of the man's fingers through Dick's hair, the simplest of gestures that has Dick's world spinning.

"Morning," Dick croaks in response, staring up at the man like he'll vanish if Dick takes his eyes off of him. He doesn't understand why he feels tears pricking his eyes, why he feels so afraid that this is all going to vanish. It's _real,_ isn't it? It has to be.

"I'm going to make some breakfast," the man murmurs, leaning down to kiss Dick on the mouth. It's chaste and sweet, the kind of thing Dick has seen lovers exchange all the time, and as the man begins to pull away Dick reacts without thinking, his free hand darting out to grab the man's wrist, not letting him walk away.

The man's brow furrows in concern, and he brushes his hand through Dick's hair again in a soothing gesture. Dick feels like his body is on fire.

"Are you alright?" the man asks.

Dick can't think of a single reason he wouldn't be. He can't explain the desperation in his chest, the terror, the _longing_ that still lingers in his mind for something he apparently already has right in front of him.

So he releases the man's wrist and offers a smile. "Yeah, I'm fine, sorry. Thanks for making breakfast."

The man hums and nods, kisses him once more, and then pads out of the room on bare feet. Dick watches him go, fighting the urge to call him back and force him to sit down with Dick and the others. It's irrational. He's fine. This is fine.

This is _perfect._

"And yet your Order tells you this is wrong."

Dick frowns, confused. He knows that voice.

Turning his head, he sees a large man with one eye standing by the wall of windows a few feet away. He's watching Dick and the others intently, something Dick can't quite name in his expression, in the slightest curve of his lips.

"Slade," Dick identifies, but it feels hollow. There's no rush of fear, or annoyance, or desire to fight. It's like all of that was in another life, an echo that he doesn't belong to anymore. Not while Damian and Jason are here, wrapped around him.

"This feel good, kid?" Slade asks him, taking a couple strolling steps forward.

Dick nods numbly.

Slade smirks. "Yeah, I bet it does. Now that your brain's turned around enough to let yourself admit it. The two boys that don't fit what the Order would like of them here with you, freely offering you what you want more than anything—to be held. And that man in there, someone who loves you the way you want to be loved—wholly and completely, enough to consume both you and your partner. Everything you could have, if you set aside the pesky rules of the Order."

Dick blinks slowly. "I don't understand."

Because Slade's talking like this isn't already his, like his fear that this will all vanish in one moment is a valid fear. How is Slade here? And... _where_ is here? Why can't Dick remember?

"Don't strain yourself," Slade says, waving a dismissive hand, and looks curiously down at Damian and Jason, something appraising in his gaze. "No need to stress, pretty bird. It's all very simple."

He's close enough to touch now, and touch Slade does, reaching out to stroke Dick's hair, much like the man before had. Dick lets out a shuddering sigh and lets his eyes slide shut, leaning into the touch without reservation. Why shouldn't he? There was a reason, he knows. A good one. But it's so far away now.

"That's it, boy," Slade rumbles. "It's this easy. You want this kind of life? Not having to douse yourself on a daily basis, not having to pretend like you don't _need,_ accepting that the Jedi's restrictions hurt you more than they do any good."

Words come unbidden to Dick's mind.

"There is no passion," Dick whispers, "there is serenity."

Slade's hand tightens, and Dick hisses, eyes flying open.

"And what about those boys?" Slade asks, using his grip in Dick's hair to force Dick to look at Jason and Damian. "Don't they look serene right now?"

"Yes," Dick replies on a quiet breath, a smile curving his lips without permission. They do; they look so peaceful, so content, and Dick can rarely recall a moment as perfect as this.

Slade wrenches Dick's head back up, catching his eye. "And they're passionate, aren't they? Hell, Todd's pretty much the _embodiment_ of passion. One doesn't have to negate the other. Your Order is attempting to lobotomize you, cutting you off from emotion and passion and some good old-fashioned chaos. The universe is a large and wild place, Grayson; do you really want to spend the rest of your life the obedient martyr you are without all of _this?"_

The world shifts around Dick, so suddenly that it feels like the floor has collapsed out from under him, and he screams as he falls through darkness, but he can't hear himself, can't see his hand in front of his face, can't feel anything around him.

It's just _nothing._

Time passes, Dick knows it does. So much time. And Dick longs for that moment again, with Damian's head against his shoulder and Jason's legs curled over his lap, and someone in the other room who loves him simply because they _can._

Instead he's alone again, and it hurts so much more now that he's seen, now that Slade's shown him—

 _So_ lonely, _aren't you? So starved for affection. You're wasted on the Jedi._

_You have the potential to be so much more._

"There is no chaos, there is harmony," Dick whispers into the darkness, but the only response is his own echo.

He feels the phantom touches on his skin, tingling and reminding him of how much he _wants,_ and only time continues to pass.

And pass.

And pass.

And...

Dick comes back into his body suddenly, the change almost horrifyingly startling, and he can do nothing but shiver and shudder on the ground. His ears are ringing, and everything hurts, the scratch of his—normally soft—robes far too much against his skin, the rocky ground against his cheek just shy of excruciating.

And there, crouched right in front of him, is Slade, looking down with calm expectation.

Dick stares back up at him, shaking despite the heat. He remembers the feeling of the hand in his hair, the lips against his own, the legs over his lap, the weight against his shoulder. The casual touches right there for the taking, and how Dick feels like he's been _gutted_ having it ripped away from him.

It was so dark, and he was so alone, and after he'd had everything _right there—_

Slade offers him a hand. Dick stares at it, and then up to that single icy eye watching him.

"Let me give you what you want," Slade says. "What you _need."_

Dick stares and stares and stares.

And then he takes the hand.

**Author's Note:**

> "Jedi act with confidence, move with confidence, and breathe with confidence. Jedi possess a confident calmness in their looks, attitude, and behavior." —Stephen Richards
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!


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